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Little Accidents
He leaves on a Tuesday afternoon in June, just as Summer was about to end. He left with a tattered Pablo Neruda book, a stolen kiss and a bag full of memories. He leaves her with a promise he'll never keep, a broken heart and tears of infinite bitterness.
She wonders if her body is all she can give him; that the only comfort she can offer is purely physical - the pillows of her breast, the brush of her hands and fingers, the heat of her kisses and the tightness of her cunt.
It seems like fucking was the only way to say hello and goodbye.
She counts her days with little accidents she experiences before they meet again: a cut from the paper she was handling, a trip down the steps, a bump under the table. It was as if her clumsiness was a sign of his impending arrival in her life; as if all these small bruises, cuts and scars were her early warning devices. Maybe, she thinks, maybe if she bleeds, he'll stay
She wonders if her body is all she can give him; that the only comfort she can offer is purely physical - the pillows of her breast, the brush of her hands and fingers, the heat of her kisses and the tightness of her cunt.
It seems like fucking was the only way to say hello and goodbye.
She counts her days with little accidents she experiences before they meet again: a cut from the paper she was handling, a trip down the steps, a bump under the table. It was as if her clumsiness was a sign of his impending arrival in her life; as if all these small bruises, cuts and scars were her early warning devices. Maybe, she thinks, maybe if she bleeds, he'll stay
